


Like Braille to the Night

by compos_dementis



Category: Psycho (1960)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Depression, Dissociative Identity Disorder, F/M, I promise, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Suicide Attempt, but also fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-12
Updated: 2013-04-12
Packaged: 2017-12-08 06:32:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/758189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/compos_dementis/pseuds/compos_dementis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Norman is not the man he used to be. Maureen has done so much for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like Braille to the Night

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a drabble prompt on tumblr. "A Little Sleepy - My muse falls asleep on your muse." In this case, my muse was Norman, and my partner's muse was Maureen Coyle. I hope you enjoy. :)

_She is exactly the same as her,_ Norman convinces himself. (Almost.) Light hair, light eyes, light skin. That is the only thought that drills itself into his head when he first sees her in the diner where he used to work. It feels like slicing through the thickest of scar tissue; letting all of his inner demons fall to the floor, visible and apparent. 

He propels himself out of the diner faster than he thought was possible. He tries to leave nothing but dust and stale fear in his wake.

\- - - - 

Maureen is a midmorning train wreck. She's terrible and broken, horridly naive, the exact kind of woman that Norman's mother despises. Perhaps it's for that exact reason that he struggles out of his dominant persona and calls an ambulance.

He waits with her after he drains the bloodied bath water. Her hands are lily white even against the porcelain of the tub, and her clavicles are shaped like Marion's. He wants to be sick. He wishes to be sick, so he could purge this horrendous desire from his system.

_Wishes are for weak little boys,_ Mother whispers. She's right. Norman's grip tightens imperceptibly on Maureen's slender fingers.

\- - - - 

_You eat like a bird,_ he wants to tell her at the restaurant. He doesn't. 

When they dance, she steps on his feet no less than three times. 

He wants to kiss her. Doesn't.

\- - - - 

Norman isn't a fan of writing, but sometimes he makes lists in his head of the things he can do to ease the panic, to ease the pain. He makes this particular list on a good day, when Maureen finds him crying in the bathroom and wraps her arms around him rather than yelling at him to grow a pair. Maureen doesn't shout at anyone, though, not that he's heard. Perhaps it's obligation. 

Whatever reason it is, Norman's immensely grateful for the embrace, and he notices, again, the pearly white scars up her arms. _Down the street,_ Maureen calls them, and smiles so gently that it physically hurts. Norman still has pain to spare for someone else. He latches onto it and before she has time to protest, he presses a kiss to Maureen's healing arm.

"It gets better," she promises him. "If you hold on long enough."

Norman has been holding on his entire life. His mother is a leech that sucks the life and the spirit from him, and no matter how he struggles, he cannot escape her. Being mad is quite different from being depressed; terribly different. Different like Norman is different - like his mind, which makes it so _fucking hard_ to keep from hurting people, is different.

So instead of fighting, he makes a list.

_Talk to Maureen_  
 _~~Call my doctor~~ _

\- - - - 

If Maureen wanted Norman to make her coffee, he would do it, even though he doesn't like coffee much. He never has. But if she wanted him to like it, he would let the bitter grinds sit like dirt in his teeth. If she wanted to lay her head on his lap, he would run his fingers through her hair and promise that tomorrow will be better, because she promised him it gets better, and he would be happy to repeat that advice if it meant seeing that smile again.

She wants to know who he is. Wants to know the darkest, most frightening parts of him. He feels as though he cannot give her that, but as they lie together, kisses dwindling, he takes her hand, presses it to his sternum. His single heart beats there. _I am one person,_ he is telling her. _My name is Norman Bates, and I am not the man I used to be._

He's terrified. Every little thing, from the way his wrists bend against the gravity pulling him to the mattress, to the way his eyes close at the soft touch of her lips to his jaw, to the movement of his fingertips against her clothed back - it all screams, _don't go. Don't leave me alone with her, not again._

\- - - -

 

And, surprisingly, she doesn't.

There is no _morning after,_ because there had been no _night of._ Norman lays still and very, very quiet, splayed like a starfish with his skin sunk deep in the scent of her perfume. Maureen is curled like a child against his chest. 

He leaves before she can wake. Hushed and sad. Silent as an afterthought.

And he can't help but wonder what it would be like to hold her through the night. Light-haired, light-eyed, light-skinned. Legs and spine. Soft lips. He wonders how it would feel to wake up to one another, twined around each other like vines, soft flesh, soft hair, even softer words.

Two steps out of the door, and he pauses. Maureen sleeps just inside, tangled in sheets, fully clothed. Honey warm. Slow-breathing, lips red from wine.

Norman swallows, an audible click. Wants to turn around. Wants to crawl back into bed with her and hold her until dawn.

_Does._


End file.
